I thought about you, these 2 long months,

about seeing you again as I cruised down

52, but the night was nothing I had planned

for in my desperately recurrent reverie.

 

Could I know that the rain’s pelting assault

would be enough to bring the sky down to

a low foreboding ceiling, to let the inky dark

cling to you, Saran wrap velvet camouflage?

 

Your absence was cruel, a breast-shaped

abscess in my forgetful brain, reminding

me that the perfectionist carves his marble

down to dust, never achieving that one night.

 

The worst part is that I am left with my vigorous

imagination, knowing you were there, we were

both in place, neither seeing the other, two teen-

agers at the dance, waiting for the other to show.

 

The mind is its most effective torturer, my

dearest stone tit. Has some phallic monolith

taken your side, comforting you as my sedan

hurtles down the separating miles?

 

One cannot know, but one wonders.

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